The Wedding Planner

by ALEXANDER WALKER, Evening Standard

Every new film that seeks to follow in the steps of the Doris Day-Rock Hudson sex comedies of the 1950s - films in which there was a lot of comedy but next to no sex - shows what finesse the older genre's footwork possessed.

The Wedding Planner begins promisingly, with Jennifer Lopez as a control-freak organiser of weddings for the upscale set in San Francisco.

She's a smooth operator when it comes to locating FOBs (fathers of the bride) who've gone MIA (missing in action) en route to the altar, or feeding a nervous best man his big speech through an earpiece.

Always the fixer, she is never the bride: typical Doris Day fate. Then her high heel catches in a grating one day and lo, the 'meeting cute' ensues when a handsome paediatrician (Matthew McConaughey) picks her up: typical Rock Hudson gesture.

Soon they're dating, dancing and surely due to - but not so fast. He turns out to be next-in-line at the 'altar event' she's planning for the spoilt rich girl (Bridgette Wilson-Sampras: a name to remember, if not a talent) who is her new client.

Having got this far without putting a foot wrong, The Wedding Planner then can't take another romantic step without a fatal stumble.

The trouble is, while the ultimate happiness of the two stars is never in doubt, it can only be solemnised by breaking the hearts of a couple of the other characters who become romantically involved with them.

A reasonably amusing premise takes a surprisingly sour turn: just as the not-dissimilar comedy My Best Friend's Wedding actually turned on a cruel act of humiliation once you shook the confetti off it.

It's strange they start to shoot an obviously expensive film like The Wedding Planner before fixing an ending that's an embarrassment to the actors concerned.

A pity: for Lopez plays a girl with wits as well as wit; and McConaughey, particularly when he's dancing a tango with her, is in control of a role that lets him be pushed around by women.

He's good: though still not 'the next Paul Newman', as Vanity Fair, the star-gazer's tip-sheet, unfortunately dubbed him a few years ago. (We don't forget.)